Short Little Stories
by AutumnPromises
Summary: Some enjoyable little drabbles that are morbid, happy, and fluffy as a bunny. Perhaps you have a request? I'd be more than glad to read it; any pairing, any situation.
1. Autumn Will Remember

Autumn was bright copper colored leaves and chilly breezes that ruffled hair and brought loved one's hands to entwine. Autumn was the remembrance of a summer come and gone and each flickered streetlight that glowed down the street where flowers fell dead with a morbid beauty.

Autumn was the borderline for insanity and a gripping ache in his chest that would never go away or even lessen, because when all of it was hurting, none of it ever heals.

Wind nipped at his hand that was white and pulled taut around his cane, and as he walked down the cobblestone path, it whispered a lullaby of days when Cameron and Chase and Foreman still called him an ass with that spark of admiration in their eyes and when Wilson's office had been right beside his.

The branches of an old oak rustled serenely as he walked past, and the grand gates stood wide and ebony.

He remembered each sigh and each snort and each muttered insult as he walked with that cocky dominance in his three-loped step, and he remembered every single moment when they'd give a complex speech about how they pretended to know what went on behind those haunted eyes of his.

He remembered how they'd gotten so close.

And then when he remembered strutting down those white-noise halls, he heard the sharp clicking of determined heels behind him and turned to see a feminine porcelain boss.

Now, the only thing he turned around to see was her headstone.

Autumn was death and wrinkled life that could have been and autumn was the bitter stale in his mouth that always made him remember that he would never walk down those white-noise halls again.

Yes, he remembered autumn very well.

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**as you can see, this particular piece **_**wasn't**_** too fluffy. and also, sorry if it was a bit longer than a drabble. the idea intrigued me; what can i say?**

**perhaps this was inspired by the future; perhaps this was inspired by the past.**

**perhaps this was inspired by the dead brain leaking out of my ears.**

**you decide.**

**by the way, this particular piece wasn't meant to be huddy, but i suppose that if you squint and tilt your head in a slightly odd fashion, it's there. i'd much prefer it if you concentrated on every character as a whole, though.**

**(more to come. these will be updated frequently as i have brilliantly deducted that it's much easier to write several sentences that flush my mood than it is to write several paragraphs and stick to an actual plot. hurrah!)**


	2. She Saw Them Kissing

It had started from _nothing_ and grew into everything all in one hissed snipe.

"_You hurt me."_

Light seemed to flood from nowhere and was everyone at once; across her legs, petting across her ebony hair and rolling down her cheeks in little crystal tears.

He was in shadow.

Their mouths moved in a flurry of insults and retaliations and deflections, and it was as if they were in the eye of the storm and looking up into a sky of blue-green cerulean.

His shoulders rolled superiorly before he leaned forwards and curled over his cane, and then silence whipped the words straight from beneath her tongue and it slowly closed her jaw.

Then it was as if their need could be cut with a glossy look of defeat, and they lunged at each other, and a moan whispered from between her pirouetting lips. His cane clattered, forgotten, onto his glassy desk and his arms wrapped possessively around her waist, hoisting her up and off the floor and into him.

When Lisa's leg ran appreciatively up his, Allison turned, ran, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

END

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**hm. well, this had originally started as house admitting that amber's death had killed part of him, as well as his and wilson's friendship.**

**fancy that!**

**if you don't know, allison is cameron's first name. also, they are referred to by their first names because this is from cameron's point of view, and in my world, that is how she sees them (in her mind).**

**this confuses me. perhaps it confuses you also. have a question? i wouldn't mind answering it.**


	3. Sad Eyes Say What He Never Could

The gossamer illusion is shivering in the midst of a confession that wasn't made by him, but rather for him and it seems to help the soft, brown-eyed best friend understand what goes on behind steeled walls, but the oncologist still frowns and his brow furrows.

A silence that kisses diagnostician's temples with sticky, reminding whispers.

"I called her gorgeous today."

A pause that isn't quiet but rather a tamed ecstasy.

"My god, what did she----"

"I never actually told her." An eye roll that is trying to deflect, but falls past and disappears.

He's never been understood and so he expects it when a witty retort of "Why not?" falls from pursed lips.

And then he looks up from beneath a shadow and there is an eclipsed submission behind sad cerulean eyes.

"Because it wasn't good enough."


	4. You Tool You

Amber flitted around the apartment and blond hair swished across bare shoulders, plump lips parted and gently serenading the oncologist's dumbfounded appreciation.

"I'll be back around eleven. You two behave." A sharp no-nonsense glower towards the diagnostician, and a soft stroke forwards before the door slammed behind her.

A witty smirk in retaliation to her lingering presence, and then House pivoted on his heal and prodded a crystal elephant that lay perched adorably on display upon the mantle.

With a cocky glint to those cobalt eyes and taunting dimples, "You are such a tool."

END

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**eh. i really don't feel the need to justify this horrible goat of a fiction.**


	5. Easier to Pretand than it is to Believe

He's asked them once between pursed lips and furrowed brows what they would do if they had a _choice_.

He says that nothing is ever really decided and that everything is just a thin gossamer veil that shatters and than reforms, and when they lick their lips and murmur _`crazy`_(genius) he just sneers and stands back and they walk away.

He watches in the wake of an ebony night with twilight kissing horizons and fireflies that sparkle but could never really light up a jar, and he says that the world is on an axle and absorbs white hot rays of ethereal light and it's just coincidence that everything melted into everything else.

(Nothing is ever actually chosen. Everything is just a string of nothing that had some intricate chemical reaction, and that's all anything will ever be.)

And then one night, an echo serenades softly against his neck and it runs it's hands through his hair and it asks what would he do if he had a _choice_. He doesn't answer.

Because, after all, he never will.


	6. Real Real Nice

Sometimes it's nice to just sit and maybe sob a little and listen to some old music that means so much more than just lyrics and harmony, and then while your just swaying slightly, your shoulder bumps somebody else's

Yeah, Cameron thinks, that's really nice.

So they're sitting there, side-by-side, and her jeans are rolled up to her calves and Brown Eyed Girl by Van Morrison is playing quietly in the background (it tugs at her heartstrings) and they're each just sipping from a bottle of beer.

The old porch creaks slightly as she shifts, and she leans into him because he's warm and it feels just so nice to touch each other as a serene sunset goes down. She's never known that such picturesque moments feel so good or even _really_ exist because she's been behind the camera for far too long, (and she finds it ironic that once-upon-a-time she tried _so hard_ to help happiness, and yet happiness never helped her.)

And then silence because the song has ended and they are just _being_, and then he nibbles on her ear and she murmurs _Robert_ against his neck, and then just like that, they are _being_ together.

Yeah, Cameron thinks, that's really nice.

END

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**for tuesdaysforever13.**

**i sincerely hope that it meant your expectations, and im sorry if it didn't.**

**(i really suggest that you listen to Brown Eyed Girl by Van Morrison. it reminds me of rich summer days and long car-drives with my sisters.)**

**a cameron x chase drabble.**


	7. She Can't Run Or Hide

She's not scared to die.

She's scared to lie broken and bleeding and trying to lick her wounds but not being able to because she'll be a twitching mess on the floor, and maybe she's terrified that the last thing she'll feel will be other's pity, but she's not afraid to die.

Because, she tells herself, once you're dead, you don't know any better… right?

A differential, a lunch and a ghost of a kiss behind a wall. A broken heel, a good hair day, and a mug that shattered across the floor.

She tells herself she tripped.

And then days, weeks, months, patients and corpses and everything else turns to tears behind stall doors because, she tells herself, it'll be easier if she's not scared and dies alone.

And then whispers get quieter but scream louder with every year and while things change (because he's not here anymore and they are gone away, and while she sips from a shaking bottle, she wonders how everybody else who she'd once thought were real are doing.) she's fine because, she tells herself, she's not scared to die.

Then eventually, she has seconds, and she realizes that the last thing she feels is not pity, and she's still not scared to die.

She's scared for what comes after.

END

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this is about thirteen's huntingtons disease and how she progresses both physically and emotionally (philosophically).

**for bandgeek58407.**


	8. The False Sense of Security

Quiet and melancholy; like a sugar coated kiss that was sour against the side of plump lollipop lips or the blink of death that came before every last inhale.

The silence, dripping with the humidity of the stinging realizations that success in life really wasn't anything but how many people were willing to throw themselves in front of buses for you, (because that's how you measure how famous someone is; how many people are willing to die for them.) and that no matter how well the pain may heal, the memory never does.

"People say that they know things just so that when more things come along, they can claim that they know what to do. It gives them the false sense of security."

She's stoic and staring off into happiness. Or what she thinks is happiness.

He goes on because although he can feel her bending against the elasticity of the moment, of this breath and this day and this loss, he feels the need to convince her that what other people believe is the truth just… _isn't._

So he's going to tell her the truth. Or what he thinks is the truth.

"But when that security vanishes because they've fucked up… they hide behind somebody else's false sense of security and hope that the three-inch chasm between them and reality doesn't…"

Heavy exhale and the pebbles of scotch that dripped to the asphalt.

"…Bludgeon them?" She offers, a tiny (slightly hysterical) smirk that was devoid of any mirth twitching at the corners of her mouth (because maybe she's noticing the irony of everything), heavy cobalt eyes turning to him and for a moment, he sees that innocence he once knew barred behind tears and wishes and dreams that could've come true but didn't.

"Yeah." His head is tilted in a subtle resignation from the depth of the conversation, and as the sky melts with purples and mahoganys (and the wise sighs that they've both drew but never again mentioned), she nods.

"Yeah." A sad murmur, quiet and melancholy… because she knows, and he knows, that they've both been hiding behind a false sense of security that was never even there.

END

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house x cuddy understanding/friendship/remembering what was/what they've been through. whatever you want to call it.


	9. Quiet Need

It shouldn't hurt. No, not like this.

Because he's oh-so used to it and anyways, they'd come as they had gone. Spontaneously and hardly tied to anything except stranger smiles and promises of oh, I owe you one.

And maybe that's all it had been meant to be, but he knows that he's contradicting himself because he'd felt something, he'd been _something_, and for the man that worships the answers and the puzzles, he's trapped in a paradox because he knows the answer but it just isn't _right_.

Hot lips and large hands and dizzying heights of everything that he'd never done before until he had and it was so good, and it was so much simpler than Thirteen made it out to be- but maybe that was just them.

After all, they had never beaten the odds- it was more appropriate to say that they had bludgeoned those odds to death and replaced them with rules that were barely constricted by the law of reality.

But maybe that was just them.

And then interferences because hearts got tied to anchors and shipped so far away and a girl died and everything wasn't simple anymore, they weren't lovers and they weren't even friends, and that just wasn't right.

Even though it was the _right_ answer.

And then one day out of ebony and galactic skies, the door to the roof squealed open and he was standing there in an ethereal light from the luminescent lamps of the hallway beyond and he slowly stepped forwards, his hands in his pockets.

"You're back." His mouth is dry and he licks his lips; he blames an energetic debate between Foreman and Cuddy.

Soft brown eyes of a soft brown man look up and then a thin mouth turns up slowly at the end and he nods on that quiet way of his. And then, "You're never going to say you love me… will you?"

There isn't a hesitation because, honestly, they can see right through each other so it doesn't matter. He might just try to cushion his dignity a little. "No."

"Oh… well. I didn't think so." And then there is two beats that go by and they smile at each other, and it's all better. Just like that.

"Beer, Wilson?"

"Sure."

END

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a house x wilson slight romance/angst/confusing drabble thing. for bandgeek58407. sorry for the way and the crappy quality.


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